


F&tGM04—What Price Gratitude?

by VStarTraveler



Series: VST's Fafhrd & the Gray Mouser Series [4]
Category: Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser - Fritz Leiber
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-03-26 00:50:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13846581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VStarTraveler/pseuds/VStarTraveler
Summary: Stewing about being cheated out of a great reward that had been promised, the Gray Mouser decides that payback is in order. When things don't go quite as planned, gratitude is tested and adventures abound. A series of loosely connected one-shots about our heroes' journeys in Nehwon.  The summary for the following one-shots will appear in the notes at the start of each "chapter."





	1. Story #1:  Temerity and Longevity

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction, written totally for fun and not for profit. This interpretation of Fafhrd, the Gray Mouser, Ningauble, Sheelba, Overlord Karstak Ovortamartes, the City of Lankhmar, and the world of Nehwon is entirely my own. They remain the property of their respective owners.
> 
> Author's Notes: While this is a series of standalone stories, fans of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser may wish to read the earlier stories in this series to get a better understanding of the background leading up to this series of stories.
> 
> Story #1: Temerity and Longevity, was written for the Caesar's Palace forum's "Do You Wanna Build a Snowman" challenge, using the prompt "woolgathering."

It was a few weeks into the Winter of the Falcon when Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser decided it would be a great time to take their leave of Lankhmar.

Despite the cold temperatures, their reason for departing the City of Sevenscore Thousand Smokes was not the weather. In fact, in comparison to the great summer blizzard of just a few months earlier, the actual winter was turning out to be fairly mild. While there had been a number of frosty mornings and even a few inches of snow on one occasion, those who had come through the great summer snowstorm seemed to be taking things in stride without any significant complaints.

The one person in town who was complaining, and complaining frequently but quietly and only to his best friend, was the little man who called himself the Gray Mouser. He wasn't complaining about the weather either.

"I'm telling you, Fafhrd, the overlord cheated us! We save the city, but do we get the great reward he promised? No! Do we get the key to the city? No! Do we get a parade? No! Besides him being too cheap, old Karstak's afraid that people will panic if they find out the storm was caused by, woooo," he said, making a funny gesture with his hands, "maa-gic. As if the citizens of this great metropolis couldn't figure out that 4 feet of snow and a 300-foot-tall upside-down icicle over a certain duke's house in the middle of summer wasn't natural. Bah!"

Fafhrd sighed but then couldn't resist making a little verbal jab at his friend. "Well, at least he didn't tell them some foreign prince was the hero instead of us this time."

Mouser gritted his teeth at the reminder. This was another serious sore spot for him. It wasn't a single instance of being cheated, but, rather, two, and of being deprived of both the monetary reward and the well-deserved credit. He'd spent considerable time thinking about the situation in recent weeks, from idle fancy about what might have been if the overlord had kept his promises to downright woolgathering about various delightful but practically impossible methods of payback since the city's ruler actually hadn't.

The little man's brooding silence coupled with the appearance of a buxom brunette was all it took to convince Fafhrd to drop the subject and concentrate on potentially more rewarding efforts. The giggling girl was soon on his arm so the big barbarian took his leave of Mouser; Fafhrd led her up to the bar for a drink before, he hoped, leading her elsewhere for more intimate pursuits.

Uncommonly, Mouser wasn't really interested in women that particular evening. As he drank his ale that night in the confines of the Silver Eel tavern, he couldn't help but ponder the situation further. Reaching into his tunic, he absentmindedly grasped the small medallion that was strung around his neck. Bearing an old image of the overlord and called his "Gratitude," Mouser had received it for for his services but then found that it was about as valuable as spit from one who otherwise refused to honor his promises. He started to pull on it to break the little cord that held it, thinking to toss it into the nearby fireplace, but he finally relaxed his grip and returned to his drink.

The drink was soon gone, but, with the medallion continuing to weigh heavily on his neck, he continued to think long and hard over each of the several drinks that followed about what Fafhrd had said earlier in the evening as well as the barbarian's earlier comment from a few weeks before. Sometimes, someone needed the temerity, that brash bravado, to go through with reckless ideas. It was getting rather late when he finally emerged from those fanciful daydreams of "what if" into the more compelling realm of "why not." It was then that the little thief decided that the overlord really had to pay. If the man refused to make good on what was owed to him and his friend, Mouser determined that he himself would have to look into other ways to make the ruler wish that he had.

~F&tGM~

Following the great summer snowstorm, the Gray Mouser had spent almost three months helping the late duke's wife put her home back in order. He would have left after the first few weeks but he discovered a way to make the work more profitable to his money pouch and, in addition, he was quite taken by one of the lady's chief servants. Their affair was really heated for a while, but it eventually began to cool when the woman started becoming serious. Still, it might have gone on for quite a while longer, but it took a sudden turn for the worse when Mouser discovered the hiding place of the deceased man's marvelous satchel of gemstones. Mouser's female friend awoke the very next morning to find her beloved missing from their shared bed at about the same time that the duchess discovered that the blue valise with the gems was missing. It didn't take too long for the two of them to figure out the culprit.

Despite his great plans for the proceeds, the little thief was soon informed that most of the gems in the bag were of relatively poor to very poor quality. There were, however, a lot in the case, so he had high hopes that the quantity would help overcome the quality issue. Unfortunately, that wasn't to be. With the fence's take, the resulting proceeds weren't really enough for even modest plans, much less Mouser's great ones. However, the gems weren't the only things that he had taken with him on his final departure from the complex. He sold several of the late duke's possessions to finance his lifestyle for the next few weeks while the duchess cooled off, realizing that Mouser had done a great job putting her house back together and, since she hadn't given him his pay recently, she was probably coming out a little ahead on the financial side anyway.

After dealing with the fences, the one item Mouser had retained from the late duke's home was a small bag that he hadn't even stolen. Well, perhaps the bag itself had been; it was so small and inconsequential that he really couldn't remember where he had obtained it, but the contents inside were not.

In helping clean up that awful blue dust from the explosion that put an end to the blizzard, Mouser discovered that, though the connection to the frigid being was gone, it retained its propensity to be quite cold. Sensing an opportunity, he collected as much of the powder as he could and sold it to a butcher who used it to line a large crate for cold storage. However, thinking ahead, Mouser kept a small pile that he put in the little bag. Sealing the bag tightly and wrapping it in several layers of thin fur that he cut from the lining of one of the late duke's winter outfits, the little thief put the bundle in his pouch with his sling.

On the day after meeting with Fafhrd at the Silver Eel, Mouser still couldn't get the fact that the overlord had cheated them out of his mind and that, therefore, he himself had to do something about it. The big question was, "What?"

The more he thought about it, the more perturbed he became until he finally took a walk through the streets of Lankhmar. He walked for an hour, then two, as he stewed, but it was a meaningless jaunt until he found himself outside the vendor's entrance to the Rainbow Palace, the overlord's home. There, he saw three carts making deliveries to the overlord's complex. He watched the procedure and then walked some more while a little voice inside him seemed to be shouting, almost continuously, "Make him pay!"

As resourceful as he was, it didn't take Mouser too long to figure out how to do it. However, as intelligent and cunning as he was, it took him several more days of watching and careful planning to figure out how to do it just right. It was the week that followed that was the hard part; he had to wait until the time was right.

~F&tGM~

The Gray Mouser's muscles were aching when he finally lowered himself from where he hung under the peculiarly-shaped olive oil cart that only delivered on the second day of the week. Using the jars as cover, he quickly rolled over to the crates that had been delivered by another wagon just minutes earlier. Deftly slipping between some of the crates and into the space behind them, he stretched for a moment before stripping off his outer clothes to reveal a good facsimile of the livery of the overlord's palace staff. When the servants came just a short time later to pick up the supplies and take them to their proper place, they either didn't notice the extra person who appeared in their midst, or else if they did, they simply didn't mind the extra help.

Mouser's research about the Rainbow Palace and his knowledge from his own observations turned out to be a little less accurate than he had hoped, so he spent some time doing various chores that he felt wouldn't look too out-of-place as he made his way through the palace. As a slight and rather unremarkable looking young man, he found that this was actually quite easy, barely drawing a glance from those he passed. He even paused to sweep outside one of the conference chambers after overhearing what seemed to be a heated discussion. The presence of two armed guards outside the doors kept him from sneaking up to listen through the keyhole, but the raised voices allowed him to pick out that of the overlord and someone the ruler angrily identified as Glipkerio.

Not wanting to be too obvious and not really interested in the discussion anyway, Mouser moved along, cleaning as he went. It took a little while before he finally found the type of excuse he was seeking. A tall stack of fresh bed linens allowed him to make his way up the northwest tower to Karstak Ovartamortes' personal quarters. Finding the room empty, he quickly stripped the overlord's bed down to the thickest mattress he'd ever seen. Then, he pulled the little bag out and carefully sprinkled a bit of the fine, blue dust over the top surface. Using gloves he pulled from a pocket, he quickly rubbed the dust in, leaving only a light bluish cast on the surface. As he rubbed, he wondered what it would be like to have such a huge bed before his thoughts turned to all the fun that could potentially be had in it. Before his task was completed, however, he'd become somewhat frustrated that it was too large and took way too much time to cover.

With fresh sheets in place, he quickly restored the stack of covers and the small mountain of pillows that topped it. He then moved to his next target through a side door. When he emerged some time later, he was about to make his escape when he noticed a small book on a desk off to the side. The book wasn't very large and wasn't very thick, so he flipped it open to see strange writings and what appeared to be a series of maps. Thinking that Fafhrd might be able to read it, he'd just slipped it into the pouch hidden under his clothes when a female voice startled him.

"Who are you? And what are you doing in here?" The woman's appearance was as severe as her voice was sharp.

With the book tucked away, Mouser reached down and picked up a gold stylus from its holder on the desk. "Overlord Ovartamortes sent me up here to get his favorite pen. I'm taking it down to him in his council meeting as he instructed. Good day."

"No! You wait right there," she ordered harshly. Stepping back to the door, she stuck her head out and called out, "Guards! Come quickly. Intruder in the overlord's chamber!"

Smiling at the thought of the reward she would receive, she turned back toward her captive, only to find the room empty. She sounded the alarm before moving on to see that all was in order. However, when a contingent of guards arrived moments later, they found the woman shaking in fear as she stood staring at the mirror in the overlord's dressing room. Marked with red greasepaint, it said:

 _Those promises made_  
_Amount to a debt._  
_If one doesn't pay,_  
_One's cursed with regret._

A guard soon spotted an odd little medallion hanging from the corner of the mirror. With it bearing the likeness of what might have been the overlord many years earlier, the guard assumed it belonged there and said nothing about it.

~F&tGM~

Operating the dumbwaiter from aboard the device was more difficult than he anticipated, but Mouser soon found his way to the bottom level. If his understanding was correct, he just had to slip through the kitchen suite and out the servants' entrance. He'd soon be home free!

While he knew he'd never collect on his lost rewards, he smiled at the thought of making the overlord remember, if not cheating Fafhrd and him, at least cheating someone. His grin got bigger as he thought about how easy it had been. He turned what he thought would be the last corner before he could slip out into the city with not a soul being wiser.

"Mouser? What are you doing here?"

The little thief's eyes widened as he recognized Sergeant Klaous, one of only two people, other than the overlord, that he'd actually met in the palace. He'd worked with the sturdy warrior in the effort to save the city during the snowstorm, and in their discussion afterward he'd learned that he'd also saved the man's life during the attack at the summer festival, a few weeks before the blizzard.

Mouser was about to try to give a believable answer, but Klaous was already thinking ahead. "The alarm! No! What did you do?" He grabbed the little man's arm and pushed him into a space between some boxes.

There was a pained expression on the man's face as he said, "You've saved my life, twice, so I'm in your debt. Tell me, quickly, or there will be nothing I can do to be able to repay you."

Seeing the earnestness of the man's look, Mouser said, "The overlord cheated me out of the reward, twice, as well. I came to remind him."

"Did you harm anyone?"

Mouser shook his head. "No, I entered unarmed," he said, not counting Cat's Claw, his dagger, hidden in the small of his back, as an offensive weapon, "and I am leaving the same. However, I left him a message where he will long remember it, if not for me, for others."

Klaous nodded and then glanced both ways. "I must tell them you were here, but, unlike some, I remember my debts and I am good for them. You must go before more guards arrive. There will be a guard outside the door; say hello as you walk by and act natural. Then, go! Leave Lankhmar! The overlord won't rest until you are captured. Or worse."

Mouser nodded, glad to see someone who took his debts seriously. He nodded in thanks and was turning to go when the sergeant grabbed his arm.

"No, you have to deck me to make your escape look good. Well, hurry, man, get on with—"

Mouser's fist hit the side of the man's chin before Klaous could even finish. The sergeant slumped sideways, falling to the floor. As he turned to make his way to the exterior door, Mouser couldn't be completely sure but he thought he saw the man grin before his eyes drifted closed.

~F&tGM~

Word of the palace intruder who had surprised and overcome one guard and brazenly walked out right past another quickly spread around the city. It was rumored that the intruder was known, but the overlord's men did not release the suspect's name in order to keep the person from becoming famous or, perhaps, infamous.

It was later that evening when Fafhrd was on his way to the Silver Eel that a pebble bounced off his arm. Turning, he heard his name uttered at little more than a whisper. Peering into the shadows, he saw the Gray Mouser hiding in an adjacent alley. He slipped into the narrow space and followed his friend a short distance to a small, moonlit courtyard between the buildings. Seeing no one else around, he whispered, "Mouser, what brings us to this place in such a furtive manner?"

"Fafhrd, if the overlord has anything to say about it, I will not be long for this world."

Fafhrd looked at his friend and then thought of the rumor he'd heard just a short time before. "You? You were the one!" He tried to keep his laugh as low as his voice as he slapped the little man on the arm. "Well done, my friend! Was your excursion worthwhile?"

Mouser shrugged. "The reward owed is still unpaid, but I left him a reminder that he should not soon forget. Unfortunately, my countless daydreams and hard-wrought plan of a secret visit were dashed, so he'll have the city guard, and likely his troops, after me to put my head on a prominently displayed pole. And, sad to say, my friend, he most likely associates you with me, which would probably put your head on the block as well."

The big barbarian thought for a moment before he put a hand on each side of his bearded face and made a show of lifting slightly. Grinning, he said, "I don't know about you, but I am rather attached to my head, and I'd much rather keep it that way."

"As would I," agreed Mouser, "yet keeping it such depends on us to do our parts."

Fafhrd nodded and said, "Come." He rubbed his beard thoughtfully as they made their way through the darkened alleys of the city before he added, "While on a recent task for Ningauble of the Seven Eyes, I read part of a book by someone with a rather unpronounceable name. I skimmed through some of the pages while waiting for him to complete a spell and one line comes to mind: 'The better part of valor is discretion.' For our personal longevity, perhaps now is one of those times when discretion is in order."

And that became the reason Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser decided, rather abruptly, to take their leave of Lankhmar.

~F&tGM~

Epilogue:

Overlord Karstak Ovartamortes spent much of the rest of the Winter of the Falcon in a fearful state of mind with a seemingly perpetual chill.

On seeing the accusing words on the mirror and the "Gratitude" medallion that he'd always felt to be a very valuable item so casually left behind, he went so far as to feel himself cursed, particularly in light of the fact that the abnormal cold seemed to follow him everywhere. The fireplace in his bedroom was kept stoked, and the stack of quilts and blankets on his bed grew higher, but the poor man just could not get warm. In addition, his wife and mistresses were soon refusing to visit his chamber to share his bed with him, making him even testier and crankier.

Daytime seemed to be as bad as nighttime, if not worse. The ruler soon took to wearing two or sometimes three of his fine winter shirts, only to feel all the colder. He never noticed the light dusting of a blue powder in the sleeves of his shirts and coats. It eventually fell out on its own or was washed away by the servants in the laundry. What little remained began to lose its potency as winter receded.

~F&tGM~

Far from Lankhmar and the Rainbow Palace, the little man who had dreamed and had the temerity to apply the dust was, unlike the overlord, feeling much happier.

While he had no idea of how his little visit had actually affected the overlord, the Gray Mouser was able to spend a number of evenings that winter during their travels in wildly pleasant imaginings about it. The resulting tales he told Fafhrd around campfires and those he shared with his friend and others in the occasional tavern lifted his spirits, and, in some of the taverns, the weight of his coinpurse, but that was not all. Having seen someone express his gratitude at the risk of his own life probably warmed Mouser's heart more than the dust had chilled that of Karstak Ovartamortes. In addition, having done something in response to being cheated, he no longer felt the need to dwell on it...at least not very often.

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Thank you for reading this story and this series. Your reviews, comments, favorites, and follows are greatly appreciated, too. More standalone tales from Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser's adventures following the Winter of the Falcon are planned to follow. 
> 
> Fans of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser may recognize the name Glipkerio, as in Glipkerio Kistomerces as the man who eventually succeeded Karstak Ovartamortes as Overlord of Lankhmar. The disclaimer at the start applies to him, too.
> 
> The quote at the end is from Shakespeare's Henry The Fourth, Part 1 Act 5, scene 4. It's more recognizable by its modern paraphrasing, "Discretion is the better part of valor." As for the book, it's entirely possible that the world-hopping wizard Ningauble picked up a copy of Shakespeare's works during one of his visits to our world and cast some type of dweomer on it to be able to read it; however, with Ningauble's strange ways, who knows?


	2. Story #2: Two Hard Heads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Story #2: Two Hard Heads, when two long-time rivals are forced by circumstance to cooperate, they debate which will lead their effort. The discussion soon turns to the relative merits of their occasional but reluctant henchmen. Fantasy/humor.
> 
> Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction, written totally for fun and not for profit. The various characters, places, and events mentioned remain the property of their respective owners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is written for the Caesar's Palace forum's January 2018 Monthly Oneshot Contest. This month's prompt will be revealed in the end notes.

A cold winter wind blew ceaselessly across the inhospitable tract known as the Desert of Kadd. Located far to the east of the city of Lankhmar and well north of Horborixen, the Citadel of Kings, the desert was barren and generally as deserted as its name implied. On this day, however, a lone figure stood observing the ground in front of him with six of his eyes as he braced himself against the wind. Tall and wearing a dark, flowing robe that was hooded and belted at the waist, thereby revealing a somewhat oversized and possibly powerful physique, Ningauble of the Seven Eyes was busily muttering to himself.

Sometimes known as the Gossiper of the Gods due almost as much to his propensity to drone on for an eternity as to his frequent possession of juicy but highly secret tidbits of information, Ningauble slowed the pace of his jaunt even as his repeated grumblings accelerated. He was using one of those recently obtained secrets regarding the whereabouts of a valuable magic item he had long coveted. It would soon be in his hands. That thought caused him to launch into yet another discourse, this time about the lack of respect of the ancients, who went to such great lengths to secret away their valuable treasures in various and sundry inhospitable climes and dangerous places, thereby making it so overly difficult for the treasure hunters of the current age to acquire them. This was especially frustrating when one's associate wasn't available and one had to do all of the work oneself.

"That boy! He's a good boy, but he does make things difficult sometimes. Oh, I can count on him. Every time I really need him, he's there, usually always ready to do what needs to be done." He huffed and trudged onward, grumbling repeatedly, essentially saying the same thing ten times in various ways before finally adding, "He can make my life miserable at times, like today, but when I really, truly need him, he's there, no questions asked. Except, when like today, he isn't."

Drawing to a stop, he held out his staff, slowly waving it above the sands, first one way and then the other. When he felt a slight vibration, he stopped both his movement and, finally, his mumbled complaints, before once again moving in the direction the staff indicated. No sooner had his movement resumed than did also his grumpy whining.

"Yes, I can count on him to do what's needed, yes, I can. Oh, there is that little matter of the contract that I once convinced him to sign and now hold over him so mercilessly. It always ensures that he does my bidding, except for this time, of course, when I really need him! This time, the fine print—that bane of good people everywhere and the bread and butter of con artists, swindlers, hustlers, fraudsters, and lawyers—about the annual length and frequency of service just so happens to favor him, forcing me to do it all myself. Bollocks and horsefeathers!"

Never considering that he himself was among those using and often benefiting from that very fine print against which he railed, he repeated his grumbling again in a variety of ways without anything substantial being added to his complaints before he finally came to a complete stop. The man raised his hands and slowly brought them together to form an almost circular shape with his index fingers and thumbs touching. Sweeping his hands to and fro, the wind seemed to blow harder from that nexus, soon revealing several flat, circular stones that were flush with the top of the shifting sands. After checking his bearings based on the position of the afternoon sun, he walked a few yards to the west, and soon exposed a larger rectangular shape of the same type of stone as the circular ones.

Moving up to the rectangle, he stepped on top of it and then held his hands still, pointing downward. This time, though, he contracted the circle down to a tiny fraction of its original size. As he reduced the circle's size, the force of the wind from his hands increased many times, blowing sand out to form a hole in the ground on the east side of the stone slab.

When it was several feet deep, he peered over the edge to see markings on the now-exposed wall. As he did, several glowing eyes projected from his hood on thin stalks, with some pointing down and at least one on each side seeming to examine the surrounding area, including the sand that was sliding back into the hole. When the glowing orbs retreated to their usual space within the hood, Ningauble nodded and dropped deftly into the pit he had just created. He studied the markings for a few moments, and then began pressing them in an odd sequence.

It wasn't long before a grating sound could be heard, and then a small door swung inward. The wizard struck his staff on the now-exposed door sill, causing the top end to light up. Placing it into the hole, he peeked in with five or six of those odd little glowing eyes. Satisfied by what he saw, he gingerly climbed into the hole, which turned out to be a rather tight fit around his substantial frame. Some moments after he was inside, the door swung closed.

~F&tGM~

The ruin, long abandoned, was dark but Ningauble's light played across various painted surfaces and shallow relief carvings, showing the artistry and effort of the ancients that had created them; however, the robed explorer wasn't there to admire them.

As soon as he made it inside, he moved forward rapidly, first down a ramp, then a passage and finally through a series of rooms toward his goal, the until-recently believed-to-be-mythical Wings of Raicus, which could give the knowledgeable wearer the ability to use them to fly. The many-eyed wonder had heard about them from Agipper, a most trusted source he frequently used to ferret out such items. Agipper had reported locating the wings buried in a chamber under the ground in the ruins of the forgotten and now buried city, but his little spy had also been forced to admit to Ningauble about being intercepted and the information being pried out of him while bringing word to the great Gossiper.

Figuring that he had about an hour before the sand sliding back down into the hole would become a serious problem, Seven Eyes was happy to turn one last corner and see the entrance to the chamber dead ahead. The stone door to the chamber was open a few inches, so he leaned into it, pushing it open further to allow his large frame to slip into the room. As he stepped in, his foot bumped something, following which he heard what sounded like wood rolling across a surface. He held his staff up to find the source of the sound, but was interrupted by a yell.

"No! Don't let that door close!"

Rather surprised to be encountering someone already in the chamber, the Gossiper held his staff out before him, both for the light and as a defensive measure. The light succeeded in lighting up the approaching figure, a smaller robed individual with a curiously blank cowl. He immediately recognized his longtime wizarding rival, Sheelba of the Eyeless Face. Unfortunately for the Gossiper, the light also lit up himself.

"Ninguable, you sept-ocular charlatan! You knocked the stick out of the door! Quick, slide something in there or we'll be trapped!"

They both made a break for the door, but it was too late. The perfectly balanced stone swung closed with a little "boom" just before Sheelba could put the stick back in place or Ningauble could slide his staff into the crack. Both wizards started searching the door and the area around it, but despite their best efforts, neither could find a way to open it.

With a curse of a single word, Sheelba turned around and went back across the room.

Ningauble, on realizing the futility, spent several minutes in a litany of curses from a number of different lands and various worlds as he deployed his eyes toward various points around the room, quickly taking in the situation. He left one eye focused on the smaller wizard, who was working diligently on something.

"So, faceless one, what are you doing here? Pursuing some ostentatious bauble to hang around your neck, some gaudy frippery, intended to distract those poor, misfortunate souls from that unchanging blank look you give them?"

Sheelba ignored Ningauble's taunt and his laugh that followed, choosing instead to answer the original question. "Like you, I seek the magical wings, though you have made it somewhat more difficult and time consuming with your clumsiness."

He of many eyes started. " _My_ clumsiness? _My clumsiness_ says the one who left such an important task to an ordinary stick with no warning of its intent! You could have at least left a sign on it such as 'Do not move this stick!' or better yet, 'Stick is holding the large and extremely difficult-to-open door. Do not touch!' Besides, where, pray tell, does one get a stick in the middle of the desert?"

"It was actually a magical rod, not a stick, and I brought it. As for the rest of your inane objections, perhaps I wasn't expecting company," replied Sheelba, concentrating on a small pot with a liquid just starting to simmer. "Or maybe I would expect uninvited guests to be more careful."

Seeing the smaller wizard's potion making equipment deployed, Ningauble ignored the insults and looked over the carefully laid out ingredients. "An educated guess tells me that you're making a 'Torin's All-Seeing' potion. Why are you doing that?"

With the exception of the careful stirring, Sheeba of the Eyeless Face remained still for a moment before answering. "Educated and you equated together seems like an oxymoron, but if you must know, I am making my own improved version of Torin's work. I know the treasure vault is right here, but I cannot see it." The smaller wizard pointed to a section of wall with only minor relief carvings as he stirred the next ingredient into the pot.

Ningauble studied the wall for a few moments and then nodded his cowl. "Of course it's there. Anyone with eyes could see that, and anyone with four or more could see it as plain the nose on their face. If, that is," he added with a snicker, "one had eyes...and a nose...and a face."

Sheelba only huffed in reply. "Since you detect it so handily, you will open it and then we will use my potion to find a way out of this room, if one is available."

The Gossiper readily agreed to this solution, though his oration in doing so went on for quite some time. Sheelba finally interrupted, "And perhaps you could hush and let me finish this." Reaching the critical phase of the All-Seeing potion, the stirring slowed to a precise speed that seemed to be reflected by the words that followed. "If there is no latch on this side, then I would create a potion that would blow a hole in the door that those original builders would otherwise not allow us to pass."

"Ha! You said 'would!' I surmise, my faceless foe, that you would do this just as you said, but you are missing something that doesn't allow you to do it! Tell me, what are you lacking for your explosive potion?"

The smaller wizard, having stopped stirring, donned thick gloves over bony hands and used them to pour the new potion into a little vial, which was immediately stoppered. With his dark cowl facing Ningauble, Sheelba answered, "I'm only missing the ingredients for the explosive potion."

"Yes, but which ones are you missing? Saltpeter? Brimstone? Charcoal? Oyle of petro? Bees wax?"

"Yes," replied Sheelba.

"Of course," sighed Ningauble in frustration. "You've already said you're missing ingredients for the potion that can help us get away. The question I'm asking is which specific ones do you lack?"

"All of them," deadpanned Sheelba.

"What great preparedness!" Ningauble launched into a satirical diatribe, this time on the faceless one's shortcomings, but when he finally realized that he was getting no response, he returned his focus to the other wizard.

With silence returned to the room, Sheelba's cowl shook. "The All-Seeing potion shows that there is no way to open the door from this side."

"Perhaps the original builders were only interested in attracting flies to the proverbial honey. Perhaps they didn't believe in allowing those who might come here to escape. Perhaps they didn't include a latch in here with the intent—"

Ignoring the garrulous one, Sheelba pondered the situation. "While I do not have the components for the explosive potion, I do have most of those required for a similarly-explosive spell. Ningauble! Do you have a measure of antimony and a sprig of bitterroot?"

"Ah, yes! Briggar's Explosive Burst! You are in luck, my faceless friend! I have both of the needed ingredients and will be quite glad to accept your contributions for me to bring the spell to its proper fruition, thereby turning that large stone door into the numerous tiny pieces that we desire."

Sheelba stood in silence, possibly scowling at Many Eyes, but with the dark, featureless void in Sheelba's cowl and Ningauble's oversized sense of self importance, the larger wizard didn't even notice. Instead, he launched into a new soliloquy on the proper preparations for the spell as he uprighted an overturned table, one of the few pieces of ancient furniture in the room. He promptly pulled a little whisk broom from out of his oversized sleeve and started to sweep the top of table with short, curt strokes. "Yes, I would not want any dust from the tabletop to mix with the various components and mess up the proper ratio for my spell."

Having finally had enough, Sheelba cried out, "Your spell? You would mess it up and leave us stranded in this place for days or even weeks while we used childish chisel spells to literally cut our way out through the door. I thought of the solution and am contributing most of the components, so I will cast the final spell that will release us from this place."

The ensuing argument lasted for several minutes, with each of Sheelba's statements short and to the point and Ningauble's anything but. They finally agreed for Sheelba to cast the explosive spell and Ningauble to provide a suitable shielding spell to protect the pair from any blowback debris. The two wizards set up their wares on opposite ends of the table and began their preparations. However, since silence is an anathema to the Gossiper of the Gods, he started speaking again only a few seconds after the quietude had descended.

"Imagine my great surprise to see you here, Blank One, instead of you sending your young henchman, the Mouse. I suppose you felt this mission was far too dangerous for one of his relative inexperience and abruptness."

"And you, Seven Eyes, coming instead of sending your personal mountain-in-training, Fafhrd. You feared that he wouldn't be able to fold himself up small enough to get through the doors?"

"Nay! My man is big and strong, unlike your scrawny scamp named after a common rodent."

"It's Mouser, named for the feline hunter after which he takes."

"Oh, the feline hunter that hunts, let's see, what was that? Mice?"

"Despite all of those eyes, I see that someone fails to see the analogy. Or isn't smart enough to understand it."

"Bah! Speaking of understanding, my man Fafhrd is exceedingly literate for a barbarian. He can often decipher, if not actual words, the intent of foreign languages as fast as my spell can translate them."

"And a sea turtle is exceedingly fast for a turtle, but it's still a turtle instead of a hawk. As for Fafhrd's ability to decipher so quickly, are you sure that's not a function of the snail's pace of your spell rather than his speed?"

"Oh, Fafhrd is fast with his reading as well as with his swords. I believe he could take on and defeat anyone on this world, and anyone on most of the other worlds I've visited over the years," said Ningauble.

Sheelba nodded. "I believe the same of the Gray Mouser. While he's not as big and powerful as Fafhrd, he's far more nimble and extremely quick. In a fight between the two, I believe Mouser would prevail, but, since they are such good friends, I suspect there would be no true winner."

"Sheelba, as much as I hate to admit you might be right about something, in this instance while I disagree on the probable victor, you just might be right about there being no winner. I guess I will be happy with my man, and thankful for his service, as I suspect you will be with yours."

"True," agreed the faceless one. "Thankful I am and will be for Mouser as you are for Fafhrd; however, I suspect that we should never tell our respective men of our feelings or they would expect more of us. My spell is almost ready. Yours?"

"I agree," replied Ningauble. "And my spell is almost ready as well; just a couple more minutes."

While they finished the final stages of their spell preparations, the two wizards also agreed that both of their young men had significant saving graces and that each of them would have found some way into the ruins to retrieve the prize. Both, however, were careful not to broach the subject of why their particular armsman wasn't actually there that day doing the work rather than the wizards themselves.

"Ready?"

"Yes, my spell is ready to protect us. Just say when, my Faceless friend."

"One, two, three, cast!"

Sheelba's resulting explosion blew a hole through the middle of the big stone door and Ningauble's shield spell efficiently deflected that portion of the debris that was reflected back toward them.

"My explosive spell left a hole big enough for even you to fit through, my friend," said Sheelba.

"And the large amount of resulting debris that would most certainly have cut you into ribbons was quite expertly deflected," agreed Ningauble, admiring the piles of debris along each side of the room, the results of his handiwork. Ningauble would, doubtless, have gone on singing his own praises about it for ages but Sheelba indicated the opposite wall.

The Gossiper took the hint for a change. He activated the hidden latch that he'd already noted, and then waved his arm to the smaller wizard as the door swung open. Sheelba entered with staff held high to light the space, with Ningauble right behind.

There was a raised dais in the center of the room on which sat a large stone stand. The wizards could see something atop the stand, so they stepped up and peered over the edge.

Sheelba uttered a single curse. Turning away, the smaller wizard, quite uncharacteristically, said at least four or five more before exiting the chamber.

Ningauble, on the other hand, was, for once, left completely speechless, for there in the middle of that raised platform, instead of the magic wings they'd both expected, was a pile of cut leather strappings and globs of discarded wax. In addition, on the top surface was the dusty imprint of the magical golden wings that had once been there. Unfortunately for the two competing wizards, no feathers, gold or otherwise, remained.

~F&tGM~

At about that same time outside a small city several hundred miles away, Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser were riding away from the town as fast as their stolen mounts would carry them. When they felt they'd put enough distance between themselves and the horses' former owner, as well as the town's constabulary, they slowed to a trot to talk.

"Mouser, your little book came through for us this time, but I'm not sure if I'm ready to ride halfway around the world to take a chance on the next one."

"Oh, Fafhrd, where is your sense of adventure? While I admit it is a bit far, where else do we have pressing business? Besides, we didn't do so bad on this one."

"No," agreed the barbarian. "Not, too bad, but I must admit to initially being a little disappointed in our take. That was a lot of effort to get a handful of gold items that were so light and delicate as to seem almost weightless. In fact, the goldsmith who melted them down for us so we could take our share said it was only a few ounces before he set the pots over the flames and leaned into those bellows."

"True," agreed the Gray Mouser, "but he ended up coming clean in the end and giving us our fair share plus a rather handsome, if not totally voluntary, tip for bringing him such good work in the first place."

Thinking of their haul or perhaps the wine and women that might await them in an upcoming town, the two rode in silence for a while. The Gray Mouser, however, kept finding his attention returning to their just-concluded efforts. He finally spoke up again.

"Fafhrd, what gets me, though, is all of the effort it took crossing the desert, breaking into an ancient ruin, and then shredding away that old leather and scraping off all of that nasty wax just so we could collect a bunch of silly feathers. I know they were gold, but I don't understand why would anyone have ever gone to so much effort to hide them. Do you ever wonder if we might be missing something?"

The giant laughed. "Frequently, my friend, but we must concentrate on looking forward, not back. Speaking of which, which direction should we be heading to get to that next spot in your little book?"

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've enjoyed this story and would like the series to continue, please let me know. You know the drill. Thanks!
> 
> The story prompt noted at the beginning is: "It's weird. He can make my life so miserable, but when I really, truly need him, he's there, no questions asked." I hope you found this story to be an interesting way to twist this statement around.
> 
> The contract that Ningauble mentions and bemoans was from Leiber's story entitled "The Price of Pain Ease," where Fafhrd agreed to serve Ningauble while Mouser was signing an identical (though much less wordy) agreement with Sheelba. The boys did this and then promptly accepted their first dangerous quest from the wizards in order to be able to visit their late loves in the Shadowland of Death.
> 
> With Ningauble having access to so many worlds and times, Agipper, his little spy, might possibly be an acronym for Advanced Ground Penetrating Radar. Then again, maybe it's just a guy with a funny name.
> 
> The Wings of Raicus are very loosely based on those of Icarus from Greek mythology. Icarus' father, Daedalus, was a very capable craftsman and was the designer of the labyrinth for King Minos. When father and son were imprisoned in the labyrinth after Daedalus helped Theseus, the enemy of Minos, to survive the Labyrinth and defeat the Minotaur, Daedalus fabricated two pairs of wings out of feathers, leather, and wax. Icarus flew too close to the sun, the wax in his wings melted, and he fell to Earth to his death. Kudos to readers who picked up on the use of the anagram Raicus/Icarus. The apparent weightlessness of the feathers in these wings was probably due to the magic that allowed the wings to fly, either causing the gold to weigh much less or to almost float on the air. As they melted, the magic dissipating would have caused the gold to "return" to its normal weight.
> 
> Finally, does anyone else find it ironic that the two wizards with empty cowls would have such hard heads?


	3. Story #3: Searching for a Sign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Story #3: Searching for a Sign, when Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser run into a problem, the big barbarian helps an elderly peasant woman and gets far more in the bargain than he anticipated. Fantasy/adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction, written totally for fun and not for profit. The various characters, places, and events mentioned remain the property of their respective owners.
> 
> Author's Note: This story is written for the "WA All/No Dialogue Challenge" and for the Caesar's Palace February 2018 MOC. There will be more about this and the MOC prompt in the notes at the end.

It was a chilly spring day in the far north when Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser came to a fork in the road.

In truth, it wasn't a real road; in fact, it was a barely beaten path. Rough, narrow, and largely overgrown, it would have scarcely been adequate for a light, two-wheeled cart, much less for the large, heavy wagons sometimes used in southern climes. In that remote part of Nehwon, though, it sufficed to be called a road.

The fork, on the other hand, was just that: a classic split. One way branched off to the right by a certain amount, and the other branched off to the left at almost exactly the same angle. Both branches looked as little used as the road by which the men had just come, or at least they did for as far as could be seen before each disappeared in the distance among the gently rolling hills.

The men had spent about a week traveling eastbound across mostly barren land since they'd last encountered people on the road (or anywhere else, for that matter). The leader of a small, westbound group had appeared to recognize the name of their destination and told them to stay on the road and follow the signs. The traveler had also told them that they couldn't miss it. At least that's what Fafhrd thought the man was saying in a language that seemed somewhat vaguely related to that of the Mingols, whose steppes lay well to the west. The man had also scratched what appeared to be a word in the dirt and pointed to it, nodding and saying it repeatedly. Fafhrd had memorized the unusual characters and what they assumed was the more correct pronunciation of the word and they'd been on their way with their thanks.

Over the days since that time, they'd come to several crossroads or forks, each with signs pointing to various points; however, one sign at each location contained that curious text that pointed to their desired destination. They eagerly awaited each new sign, since that meant they were getting ever closer to their goal. They'd even taken to making bets on whether they would go more to the right or to the left, with straight ahead at a crossing only extending their bet to the next intersection. This gave them some small diversion as they journeyed onward.

At this particular fork, Mouser held the rights to their path being more to the right and Fafhrd's bet was that it would be more to the left. Unfortunately for the men and their bet, the sign with the name of the location they sought was missing, as was the signpost that should have held it.

The big barbarian shook his head in mild frustration and got off his horse. He started studying the ground, looking at the footprints and hoofprints that covered the area. There were signs of an abandoned camp for about eight to ten people, and, even more obvious, he saw the remains of a fire. A wisp of smoke rose unsteadily from the charred remnant of a decent-sized log or pole in the crude firepit, which contained almost cool ashes. Fafhrd estimated that the group had left heading cross-country to the south early that day.

Considering that there had been no trees visible for many miles and there was a hole where something appeared to have been pulled out of the ground, Fafhrd also figured that the probable source of the big cinder and most of the ashes was the signpost they had expected at the fork.

Holding the string of the two surviving pack mules from their long journey, the Gray Mouser sat quietly on his horse scanning the surrounding hillocks for anything that might give them a clue as to the direction in which their desired destination lay. Any sign would have been welcome, but the little man saw nothing and he continued to sit and fret in silence.

Since their destination was only a dot on a map and since neither of the men had ever been there or even heard of it before seeing the name written on the old leather there was no guarantee that the place actually existed. This was even though Mouser had obtained the ancient map, however unwillingly, from Lankhmar's overlord. That said, the little bound booklet of what appeared to be old treasure maps had proven to be correct on each of their first two journeys and now they were attempting to follow the third map.

It was that traveler from days before who had finally given them their first confirmation that the place was real, but such was the allure of even the hope of bountiful treasure. It was so powerful that grown and otherwise intelligent men would throw caution to the winds and chase across the known world and far beyond to some unknown destination for even the slimmest of opportunities to obtain such riches.

Thus, while Mouser sat quietly searching for a sign telling them which way they should go and who would win their bet, he fumed silently at himself for being distracted by the allure of the shiny, the sparkly, the flashy, the silky, and the precious, which might or might not even exist in the distant treasure room of some long-forgotten ruler or wealthy mogul who chose to immortalize himself with a map that promised hope of such gaudy goodies.

Still, even as Mouser sat on the horse searching the horizon for that sign, he gave no thought to actually giving up on his quest for that hoped-for treasure.

A sign, though perhaps not the one Mouser sought, finally became visible in the distance.

A bent figure carrying something on its back topped a little rise and then disappeared behind another. Mouser was about to ride out toward the burdened man when, once again, the distant figure started to become visible above a little hillock. It was when the man topped the hill and was starting back down that Mouser realized it was actually not a man at all but a thin and elderly woman carrying a large bundle of sticks on her back.

Fafhrd didn't hesitate when Mouser informed him of the approaching woman. He climbed on his mount and rode out to meet her, with Mouser grousing as he attempted to trail behind with both of the stubborn pack animals.

The big barbarian dismounted when still well away and he approached the old woman, holding his hands up and having his weapons sheathed to show her that he meant no harm. He tried speaking with her in Mingol, in a couple of related tongues, and then in his own language before resorting to Lankhmarese and the few words of every other language he knew. He even used his repertoire of curse words from a number of other languages, hoping to draw some type of recognition at the individual words, but the elderly peasant's face was blank, completely without understanding. All the while, she gripped the head of a crude little iron axe tucked in her belt, holding it as if she wouldn't hesitate for a moment to use it on him if he tried anything.

Fafhrd switched to hand signs to try to draw her out. Hesitant at first, she eventually responded to this and Fafhrd learned that her home was apparently some distance beyond the fork. Having finally calmed the woman and seeing how frail she appeared, Fafhrd indicated that he would carry the sticks for her. He gently took the bundle, which appeared to be the relatively straight branches of some type of northern myrtle, and placed it on the ground next to him. He then waved to the woman to mount his horse.

The old woman's eyes filled with fear and she shook her head rapidly, but Fafhrd tried once more to calm her. He petted the horse, rubbing it gently, and then allowed her to do the same. When she seemed comfortable with that, he gave another easy motion for her to mount. She didn't seem as frightened this time, so he carefully took her by her tiny waist and lifted her onto the saddle. She was still fearful at first but she finally smiled as he helped position her to the side of the saddle and then placed her hands on the pommel. Picking up the bundle as if it was almost nothing, he led the horse and its frail rider back toward the fork.

Mouser had pulled up short to give Fafhrd and the woman plenty of space and to avoid frightening her further. He even tried to temper his impatience and change his dour frown into something approximating a smile when they went by him. Pulling the pack mules behind him, he returned to the fork to see Fafhrd helping the elderly woman back down to the ground.

Fafhrd pointed to the location of the missing signpost and then to the fire pit. The peasant woman nodded fatalistically in agreement. She pointed to herself and then down one of the branches before adding what seemed to be a welcoming wave to them.

Thanking the woman for her offer, Fafhrd said the word for their destination, but again the woman didn't understand. He finally drew a pointed rectangle on the ground with his finger, and wrote the characters for the word that the traveler had shown them days before. Still, the woman showed no recognition of the word or understanding of its meaning. She again pointed toward what Fafhrd believed was her home. She seemed more insistent this time, so the young men decided to go to her home in hopes that there they might meet someone else who could help them.

It was not to be, however, for when they arrived and Fafhrd helped the woman down from the horse once more, they found the remains of a tiny village with only the old woman's small, domed hut still occupied and in reasonable shape. She pointed to several graves, including one that looked recent, and put her hand over her heart as she bowed her head low over the new one. Fafhrd bowed his head, too, and his frown at Mouser caused the little thief to join them.

Using some of the sticks she'd gathered, the aged woman set out to make a meager dinner soup consisting of an onion and a couple of potatoes. Seeing that she had little else, Mouser hid his frown and went to the pack mule, where he pulled out a rabbit he'd hit with a sling bullet earlier in the day. As he offered it as their contribution to the dinner, the woman's eyes grew large and teary once more, though this time she soon gave him a smile showing her appreciation with a mostly toothless mouth. She smiled even wider when Fafhrd stooped into the hut a short time later carrying what remained of a jug of ale.

~F&tGM~

Early the next morning, Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser thanked the peasant woman once more for her hospitality as they packed up to leave. Fafhrd said nothing to his friend about the small stack of copper coins he'd left on the wooden plate on the shelf. Likewise, Mouser didn't mention the little sack of ground meal and flask of cooking oil that he'd left next to the pot on her low table.

With a wave, they left and soon made their way back to the fork. There, they debated long and hard on whether to wait for the next traveler who might be able to help them (or for whatever other sign might appear that would send them on their way) or to choose a branch. This became difficult since Fafhrd insisted their destination would lie to the left and Mouser was equally insistent that it would be to the right. They finally decided to give it three days before randomly choosing a path with a coin toss, so they made their camp and the long wait began. They took turns with one always at the fork watchfully waiting while the other searched around the area and hunted.

It was late afternoon and Mouser had only recently returned with a gopher-like creature slung over his shoulder when Fafhrd saw the old peasant woman approaching their camp from the direction of her home. It was the men's turn to invite her to dine with them.

After eating, the woman motioned for them to return with her to her home once more. Like the evening before, she became more insistent as the sun slid to the horizon and started to set, this time tugging on Fafhrd's arm and looking pleadingly at Mouser. They'd just given in when her head turned to the south and she cried out, pointing in the distance.

Several riders were topping a distant hill, making their way toward the fork. The elderly woman looked fearful, trying to tell Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser of the danger. They nodded, understanding even better than the words she tried so hard but so futilely to convey. Knowing they had little time and that things might become violent on the group's approach, Fafhrd motioned for the woman to take cover and stay down, placing his good coat and a blanket over her between the packs from their shaggy mules.

Mouser made their horses and pack mules, which had already been hobbled, lie down, too; they might be the only cover the men would have if things got out of hand. He ducked down behind one of the mules and readied himself in case it came down to a fight as he feared.

Some moments later, the approaching group stopped a short distance away when they saw Fafhrd, a veritable giant in comparison to their small stature, standing in front of them with his bow out and an arrow nocked, ready to be drawn and fired. They saw no one else, but the riders were quite apprehensive since they did see two horses and saddles in addition to the pack animals. Using crude signs and guttural words, the leader, a larger, fearsome sort riding what appeared to be an actual horse rather than the little ponies like his men, demanded tribute from the travelers, but Fafhrd refused and bluntly told them to go away.

The bandits became increasingly demanding, but neither side understood the other beyond a most basic level of threat and intimidation on the part of the riders and refusal to part with their scant but hard won prizes on the part of Fafhrd.

The bandit leader finally gave what appeared to be a loud and fierce but completely incomprehensible ultimatum to which Fafhrd refused one more time. The brigand raised his scimitar as he angrily turned to his men, but he didn't finish his statement. Fafhrd's rapidly drawn arrow hit him, causing him to topple from his horse. The bandits were surprised to see their leader fall and were then surprised again as Mouser popped up from behind one of the mules with his sling spinning. Barely a second later, another bandit tumbled off his pony when a steel bullet from Mouser's sling crashed into the man's head.

Chaos reigned among the mounted bandits as they tried to control their animals and come around to run down the giant. A third man fell to another of Fafhrd's arrows and one of the bandits' ponies screamed as Mouser's next bullet hit its neck rather than smashing into the rider on its back as intended. The gaunt little pony ran away, carrying its lucky rider with her.

In the fading twilight, the first bandit to regain control of his steed came around and charged at Fafhrd, who tossed his bow and brought around Graywand, his great sword that he'd planted in the earth behind him. Barely missing the pony, Fafhrd's blade sent the rider tumbling to the ground; the little pony ran away as the barbarian drew Heartseeker, his long dagger, with his left hand.

Scalpel, Mouser's rapier, was the next to draw blood as Mouser stabbed the leg of one of the riders. The man screamed as he clutched at his wound and barely clung to his pony to make his escape. The three remaining bandits were backing away when the one to the side pulled out his shortbow and drew on Fafhrd, who was turned facing the others.

The arrow flew straight and true toward the barbarian, but the old peasant woman, having seen what was happening and having no way to warn him, had already risen from her sanctuary. Using all of her energy, she threw herself in the way, taking the arrow in her breast. Mouser, who only saw the arrow as she fell, threw Cat's Claw, his dagger, pinning the archer in the chest as he was drawing yet another arrow from his quiver. The bandit fell from his pony and the two remaining bandits fled.

Fafhrd ran to the dying woman, but there was nothing he could do to save her. She smiled weakly at him and tried to reach up to touch his bearded cheek, apparently thankful for the kindness that he'd shown her, but she was too far gone. Fafhrd, a tear in his eye, held her hand as she died.

Thinking of the graves they'd seen in the village, they placed her body on Fafhrd's horse after packing up their equipment. They returned to her hut, where Fafhrd gently cleaned her face and hands. He smoothed her mussed hair as well as he could, and then wrapped her body in her blanket. Choosing a spot next to the newest grave, they buried the old woman and paid tribute to her early the next morning as the sun rose in the east.

~F&tGM~

It was later that morning when Mouser and Fafhrd returned to the fork to continue waiting for the sign they hoped would come to show them the right path to take.

While they waited, they discussed the situation and why they found themselves in it in the first place. Perhaps it was greed, as both men agreed seemed to be the case with the bandits (while at the same time strenuously denying it for themselves). It might possibly have been their desire to explore new places, or maybe it was just their thirst for adventure. Whatever the case, the men finally agreed that the important point was their choice to ignore the cause of the circumstances but to still press doggedly on in pursuit of the riches that might or might not actually be where the map indicated. If, that was, they could ever find that spot.

As the morning passed, they also thought much about but said little of the old peasant woman whose name they never knew. There by basic necessity, the most pure of such reasons, she too had made a choice, thereby allowing them the opportunity to continue to make their own.

With much on their minds, the two friends finally sat down in silence to wait and watch.

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow-up notes: 
> 
> Thanks, as always, for reading and for your support.
> 
> As noted earlier, this story was written for the Caesar's Palace MOC with prompt: "All we do is sit in silence waiting for a sign." - Drive, Halsey (does not have to be used as dialogue, just must be in the story). It was also written for the WA All/No Dialogue Challenge, in which the author had to choose one or the other.


	4. Story#4: One Dark Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Summary:** Deep in the jungle, a tiny campfire lights the dark night. Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser discuss gratitude and friendship. Story#4: One Dark Night is written for the Caesar's Palace forum's April 2018 Monthly Oneshot Contest, using the prompt "darkness" from April 2015.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** This story is a work of fiction, written totally for fun and not for profit. This interpretation of Fafhrd, the Gray Mouser, and the world of Nehwon is entirely my own. They remain the property of their respective owners. The Jungle of Dorr, if that is indeed where the boys are, is my own creation.

The jungle was cloaked in darkness. With the dense canopy overhead, not the moon, a star, nor even a cloud could be seen.

The only light visible was a tiny fire that barely lit the faces of the two men of distant Lankhmar and the somewhat darker complexions of their guide and three porters on the other side of the little flame. Since neither group understood the speech of the other, both sides were talking quietly among themselves to pass the time while trying to avoid attracting the attention of the dangerous denizens of the tropical forest.

"Fafhrd? Fafhrd! Did you hear a word I said?"

"Hmm? Sorry, Mouser. What was that?"

"That's what I thought. We're here in the midst of this gods-forsaken dark forest—Dorr, Door, Window, or whatever it's actually called—but your mind seems to be thousands of miles away rather than on the immediate task at hand of getting us out of it. Are your thoughts back in Lankhmar? Or perhaps in that northern wasteland you once called home? With some beautiful, buxom, young maiden to warm your bed, no doubt."

"The Cold Wastes, Mouser. I'm sorry, my friend, you're correct that my mind was wandering, except for the location. And, as delightful as she might have been, the maiden you mentioned was nowhere to be seen either."

"Miracle of miracles! Then, where, pray tell, was your mind focused? Some tropical island where dark-haired native girls wear grass skirts and coconut shells, if anything at all?"

"No, my friend. No girls at all. My thoughts were actually back at the river this afternoon. That book said the Jungle of Dorr held many dangers, but it still surprised me. The crossing had been easier than I expected to that point and we were within seconds of being done when that floating log suddenly transformed into a water dragon and carried the last porter away downstream, Kos protect his soul."

Fafhrd paused, as if recalling the scene again. "Mouser, he was within just inches of taking my hand and being safe on the bank when he was swept away. I heard his bones being crunched even as the beast carried him off. I've seen a great deal of death and a lot of surprises in my years, but this was one of the worst."

"It was indeed a horrible sight—and sound—Fafhrd, but if it helps, it must have been over quickly for him. Between the beast's—a crocodile, I think—crushing jaws and the muddy water that would have taken his breath, he would not have been in pain for very long."

"No, not long at all. The poor man hadn't a chance, even if my arrow had been nocked and bow had been fully drawn. Even if your sling had been at full spin, too, it would have all been for naught for him. Unless, of course, we had had the luck of the gods."

"Perhaps it was the luck of the gods that he was chosen rather than one of us. Like when you crossed first with the rope in tow—if the beast had hit you then, there would have been nothing that any of us could have done...just like there was nothing you could have done for the unfortunate porter. Oh, we would have pulled and pulled on the rope, but I believe it would have been for naught as you said. All that we would have recovered after all that pulling on the rope would have been a frayed end."

"Bah! Mouser, you jest! You know I would have boxed that water dragon—or crocodile or whatever it's called—right in the nose and given the beast second, third, and even fourth thoughts about dealing with the likes of me."

The little thief laughed. "Possibly. And you'd have been quite a tough mouthful for him, too. There's no telling how many teeth he might have lost in the process of trying to eat you."

"You, on the other hand, while barely a morsel for the beast, could have been plucked right off the line when you insisted on shinnying across the river suspended on the rope rather than using it to help you cross like the rest of us. All to keep your boots from getting wet. Near the center of the river, your back was almost touching the surface. By the way, did you get wet doing it?"

Mouser smiled as he shook his head. "Nary a drop, my friend. You owe me two coppers."

"Says the little man after he's had plenty of time to dry. Here."

"In this heat and humidity, it's unlikely that we have a dry stitch between us, but at least the water on me is not from the river. And I thank you for the coins, my friend, and my purse thanks you."

Fafhrd nodded as he placed another small stick on the fire. "Perhaps it's best to let you win this time anyway, Mouser. In a situation where every bit of weight counts, you get to carry those extra coins through the jungle and I have the chance to win more off of you next time. Say, what's got your attention?"

"I look at our departed porter's fellows across this little fire and wonder: they speak and laugh quietly among themselves and don't seems to miss his presence at all."

"They do seem rather jovial lot, considering, don't they?"

"Jovial? No, Fafhrd. Not a one of them has smiled during the nearly four weeks we've been traveling through this jungle, but after their friend is eaten by the beast, they suddenly become...I don't know...happy?"

"Perhaps relieved? Or, maybe a sense of thankfulness? They could have been friends, or maybe even brothers, of the late porter, but they now sit here eating roast dragonette rather than ending up like him, being digested in the maw of the water dragon."

"I think it's iguana."

"Mouser, when you're old and gray, you can tell how you ate spit-roasted iguanas on this trip. My version of the tale, when I'm trying to impress your buxom, young women, may possibly include battles with fierce dragons and dragonettes. The young ladies will be much more impressed with my version than yours, believe me, and with the few travelers who have ever ventured into and returned from the Jungle of Dorr, who would ever attempt to dispute the tale?"

The Gray Mouser's face turned to a smile before he nodded slowly. "Point taken, my friend. Dragonette it is. So they're grateful for their friend inadvertently sacrificing himself for them? What if there had been a second, or even third, crocodile?"

"We need not waste time considering by-gone possibilities, Mouser. There may have been other crocodiles that were too slow or too far away, unlike their fellow beast, to snatch one of us, but, if so, their loss was our gain. Whatever the case, our assistants across the fire realize that they have survived while their friend was lost, so they, based on their smiles and their attitude, seem to be grateful, if not to him, at least for their own continued existence."

"As am I, Fafhrd, but if you had been the one swept downstream by the beast and carried away forever instead of me, I would have greatly mourned your loss even while being thankful for and celebrating my own salvation."

Fafhrd's hand patted his friend's arm. "As would I, my friend, for that is what true friends do. Sadly, we may find other rivers to cross tomorrow and more water dragons or crocodiles to face, but for tonight, I am grateful that we are here together and that we've made it through yet another day."

"Which brings us back to my original question: how many more days will it take us to finish crossing this jungle?"

Their discussion turned to the various possibilities and probabilities that still faced them in their jungle crossing before they finally agreed there was really no way to know. However, that didn't stop them from revisiting their bets on the matter before a yawn made them realize that it was time for rest.

Fafhrd signaled across the fire that he would take the first watch, so the guide, the porters, and Mouser all settled down to try to sleep as the little fire slowly burned down and their surroundings quickly faded to darkness.

~F&tGM~

It was about an hour later when Fafhrd, lighting a torch, called out to wake the Gray Mouser.

"Mouser, quick, it's starting to rain and the water is about to come down through the jungle canopy. Get under our shelter and make sure our supplies are as protected as possible while I wake our friends."

All six men and the supplies were soon crammed together under the makeshift shelter they'd fashioned earlier in the evening. With the rain pouring down through the canopy above almost as if it wasn't there, Fafhrd elbowed Mouser and whispered, "Ha! I win. I told you it would rain tonight."

A moment later, Mouser handed him the two coppers. "Here, I guess it's your turn to carry these after all, my friend."

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Author's Note:** Thank you for reading this story and this series; your reviews and comments along with any favorites or follows are greatly appreciated._


	5. Story #5: Mouser and the Grapevine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Mouser makes a questionable purchase, the result is far more than he bargained for. Fantasy/adventure/humor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Disclaimer: As before, this story is a work of fiction, written totally for fun and not for profit. This interpretation of Fafhrd, the Gray Mouser, et cetera, is entirely my own. They remain the property of their respective owners._
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> _Author's Note: This story is written for the Caesar's Palace forum's December 2018 Monthly Oneshot Contest. The prompt will be revealed in the author's notes at the end._

Once upon a time there stood a little house among the tall trees in a land far from Lankhmar.

Stood is perhaps too strong a word for the ramshackle dwelling's rather precarious lean against one of the adjacent big trees was all that kept it from collapsing. The roof and walls weren't good either; rain would seep in and the wind, when there was any, would cut right through.

"Mouser! Wake up!" called his mother from outside the house. "I need you to help me with something."

Mouser lay in his bed, trying hard to pry open his eyes. The little bed was lumpy and uncomfortable, but he rolled over and pulled his thin blanket high above his head before pulling it back down to completely cover himself.

"Mouser? Mouser!" came his mother's persistent call.

"Uh, hold on, Mom. I'm coming."

Something about saying "Mom" seemed strange to him, but he got out of bed with a yawn to see his mother standing before him, her hands on her hips tapping a booted foot impatiently. With her feathered, reddish-blonde hair, the fine blonde hair on her chin, and her strangely immaculate fingernails, Mouser's mother was much taller and much bigger than her son, a small, spry lad, but she had a look of concern on her face as she looked down at him.

"Mouser, we're out of food so I need you to go out the Dorr to the nearest town and get us something to eat for supper or we may go hungry."

"Yes, ma'am. How am I supposed to get it?"

"Well, I've gone through our things. The only thing I can find that might be of any value is this little book with the strange maps in it. You can sell it in town and buy us food so we won't starve. Just be careful, don't dally, and don't allow yourself to be cheated."

Mouser looked at his mother with a strange feeling. He'd never, ever seen her so concerned. "Yes, ma'am. I'll be really careful."

"Good. Then be on your way, young Mouser, and may that way bring us good fortune and good food. Oh, and a jug of ale."

Mouser frowned at his mother's odd request but nodded in reply as he took the little book with its cowhide cover and placed it in the pouch at his belt. He strapped on his wooden sword and the small knife he carried and was on his way.

~F&tGM~

Hacking at vines and branches with the broad wooden sword that he'd nicknamed Cleaver, Mouser traipsed through the dense forest. Cleaver's name didn't sound quite right to him, so he kept trying other possibilities for a time before finally giving up and then realizing he was completely and utterly lost.

Looking up, he saw the dense, humid air hanging cloud-like below the tops of the trees above. The young man sighed as he wondered when he might get out of the Dorr and escape the life he was leading. He would make his fortune and journey to a fabulous city like distant Lankhmar or perhaps one of the Eight Cities. He thought of the buildings he would see there, the foods he would eat, the wines he would drink, the young ladies he would woo, and the fat purses—

His daydream was interrupted by a strange sound, almost as if someone was clearing their throat. Mouser spun around to see a man dressed in a black robe with a hood that covered his face sitting on a fallen tree trunk. Or perhaps her face; from the shape of the person, Mouser really couldn't tell.

"Hello. What brings you to my store today?"

"Store?" questioned Mouser, unsure if the voice was that of a man or a woman. Not too concerned about that, he looked around but saw nothing that would indicate anything other than the fallen tree creating a small clearing among the trees. "Who are you and where is your store?" he asked.

"I am but an humble, traveling peddler," replied the person. "My store goes with me wherever I go and is open whenever and wherever I rest my weary bones." The oversized sleeve of the robe swept from side to side, revealing to Mouser, if only for a moment, the peddler's bony hand. "So how may I help you?"

Mouser, realizing that he might be able to conclude his business and make it home before dark if he used the peddler's services, replied, "I seek food for my mother and me."

"Bah! I am a peddler, not a greengrocer or a butcher. I do not stock foodstuffs in my inventory," he added dismissively.

"Sorry to have bothered you, sir," said the young man, growing concerned. He started slowly backing away.

Mouser was about to turn and run when the peddler, seeing a sale slip through his bony grasp, held up its hand. "Wait! I have something that might fit your needs, but only if you can pay the price."

"I can pay." The young man pulled out the book and held it up for the peddler to see.

The peddler slowly moved its head up and down, though whether to observe or nod, Mouser couldn't be certain. Either way, the boy was intrigued when he could not see the person's face within the cowl.

His thoughts were interrupted as the peddler said, "These, my boy, are magical grape seeds that should feed a family of four forever—if they really like grapes—or can be used to make the finest wine imaginable. I will trade them to you for your book."

Not sure if his mother would agree, Mouser pondered for a few moments before finally saying, "Deal."

~F&tGM~

It was almost dark that evening when Mouser arrived home to find his mother turning a scrawny dragonette on the spit over the fire.

On learning the result of the boy's trade, she was somewhat disappointed. Not wanting to discourage him but not wishing to prevent him from learning a valuable lesson from the experience, she said, "Mouser, traveling peddlers are notorious for giving little of value to their customers, but especially when they pawn off—ah, peddle—their 'magical' goods. Let's go plant these seeds in the garden. We'll mark their spot so we can water them to make them grow. Hopefully."

After planting the seeds and sharing their meager dinner, Mouser went to bed, trying to figure out where he'd be able to get the bottles, or, better yet, barrels, he would need for all of the wine he would soon be producing.

~F&tGM~

Mouser awoke just before dawn the next morning, wondering if his seeds had sprouted. Stepping quietly to avoid waking his mom, he went outside only to return a few minutes later. He quickly strapped on his little knife and wooden sword and then tiptoed back outside as mother stirred briefly before resuming her beauty sleep.

The vine, or rather vines—one for each seed, he supposed—stretched high up into the trees, even above the misty clouds that had already started to form below the high canopy. Looking up, he saw that the vines were tied off to the trees by their tendrils; the entwined nature of the three vines and the frequent leaves made for good handholds. With a grin, Mouser started to climb for he'd always wanted to see what it was like at the top of the forest.

The climb was longer and more arduous than he expected, and it wasn't too long before Mouser purposely started to avoid looking down. He had to take a short break occasionally as he neared the top; it became hotter and the cloud-like mist clung to him, making him feel muggy.

When he reached the canopy, he found it difficult to climb up through the tightly woven branches and leaves. Native vines and moss also seemed to weave it all together but, bit by bit, he worked his way upward until his head finally broke through the top layer.

The sun seemed blinding, so Mouser squinted and looked away, fighting off the tears that started streaming down his cheeks. It had been seemingly forever since he'd last seen the sun outside the forest, so it took several minutes for him to adjust.

When he did, Mouser saw the practically endless top of the forest canopy. A larger tree thrust up above the layer occasionally and he saw a few holes. Being very careful, he climbed up and found that he could support himself on the roof of the canopy if he was sure to step on the branches. It was a spongy feel, so he was very careful as he took a few hesitant steps before finally sitting down to rest in preparation for the long climb down.

~F&tGM~

Mouser's rest became a nap in the warm sun that ended when he heard a loud, piercing sound somewhere in the distance. He looked that way, trying to figure out what he'd heard, but he saw nothing until his eyes came to rest on something that looked like a castle next to one of the large, emergent trees. With his curiosity nearly as high as the sun in the sky above, he decided to go investigate.

It was a long, slow walk across the tangled surface. He had to be sure of each step before he could transfer his weight from one foot to the other, but he made progress. As he did, the castle looked less and less like a castle and more and more like a fortress made of sticks, branches, and mud.

When he finally reached it, he saw that the mass formed a circular, fortress-like wall that spanned over several of the trees below. Mouser couldn't quite reach the top so he found handholds in the rough surface and slowly climbed up.

On top of the fortress, he realized what it was when he saw three large, golden eggs. Mouser's heart raced when he realized the probable size of something large enough to have laid such eggs, so he looked around to be sure the creature wasn't nearby before climbing down into the nest.

The eggs were quite warm to the touch, but his attention was diverted elsewhere. Along one side of the nest were a number of items embedded in the sidewall. Approaching it, the young man saw a cup, a plate, a candlestick, and several other objects of indeterminate nature partially projecting from the wall of the nest. What made them all different is that, unlike the eggs, these were made of real gold.

With a tug, Mouser freed the cup, and with a bit of carving with his knife, he was able to free the candlestick. The plate was buried too far into the nest's wall for him to be able to pull it out, and he'd just started working on another piece when, once again, he heard the loud, piercing scream in the distance.

Standing on the thick floor of the nest, Mouser was just able to look over the sidewall and what he saw frightened him. A gigantic, black bird was winging its way toward the nest. As it flew closer, Mouser saw that it was more than just a giant bird; its black wings were more like tattered cloths trailing behind it than feathers and scarier still were the seven stalk-like eyes that covered its dark face above a featureless black beak.

Knowing that he had no time to spare, Mouser looked for somewhere to hide but saw no good options, so he crawled into the space in the middle of the three eggs, balled up, and covered himself as well as he could with his gray cloak.

Darkness covered the nest just moments later when the giant bird landed, causing the nest and trees to shake.

"What a day, what a day! When birds of the jungle come up to play," said the bird as it settled down on its clutch.

"Yes, my pretties, mark my words: I caught several of those little birds. Plus, to end with a river dish, a little croc and a great big fish!"

Mouser was getting very nervous with the giant, seven-eyed, talking bird sitting over him, and it was getting awfully hot and stuffy, too. Not knowing what to do, he waited a little while listening to the huge bird prattle on before he finally called out, "Mmm, our parent? It's getting quite hot in here!"

"What? With great dispatch!" called the shocked bird. "My children come early? My children will hatch?"

"Yes, parent, dear," called Mouser, hoping the bird hadn't caught his lack of rhyme the first time, if rhyming actually was a characteristic of the species. "And hunger we fear!"

The giant bird rose from the eggs and looked down but could only see the outer part of the egg due to the large shadow that it cast over the clutch.

"If hatch you will, then fly I must! Food I'll bring you, before the dusk!"

With the furious beating of its tattered wings and the resulting gale force winds, the great bird took to the sky in search of food for its young.

Almost shaking, a sweltering Mouser crawled from his place among the eggs and was starting to climb up the side of the nest when he heard a cracking sound. Looking back, he saw one of the golden shells breaking and then another. A beaked, black head emerged from the first shell as the creature in the second continued to chip its way out.

"Sorry I can't stay," said Mouser as he started his climb, only to feel something stab into his calf muscle. With blood trickling down the back of his leg, Mouser looked back to see the large baby bird jutting its head toward him again, trying to take a bite of the only potential food available.

"No," growled young Mouser as he drew his wooden sword and used it to deflect the creature's beak sideways. "I am not your dinner!" he continued as the baby bird struck again.

This time Mouser turned the sword flatwise and slid it crossways into the bird's mouth, so it came to rest at the back of its beak. The bird bit down on the sword several times before it started to slip forward, but Mouser wasn't hesitating. He was just reaching the top of the nest wall when the wooden sword fell out of the bird's mouth.

As quick as he could, Mouser practically ran across the top of the canopy toward the grapevine. He was almost there when he heard a loud scream and dark shadow passed overhead.

"Fee, fi, fo, fum! I smell the blood of a thieving bum!" called the giant bird as it dived toward him.

With no time left, Mouser dived into the canopy next to the vine and tried to slide down to safety as the giant bird crashed atop him.

~F&tGM~

"Mouser? Mouser! Are you okay?" called a concerned Fafhrd. "I've been trying and trying to wake you up."

The Gray Mouser lay on the lumpy, uncomfortable ground, trying hard to pry open his eyes. He was hot and sweaty, as usual, but to make matters worse, he was tangled in his thin mosquito netting while trapped under the collapsed remains of their lean-to.

Struggling to climb out as Fafhrd lifted it up, Mouser thanked him for his help and then added, "You know, maybe we should stop telling such silly stories before bedtime."

"I don't know," mused Fafhrd. "They sometimes make for interesting dreams."

"True," agreed Mouser with a nod. Glancing over at the fire, he added, "Yum. Roast dragonette. My favorite. Not."

Fafhrd chuckled, but Mouser turned away as he brushed himself off. Looking up, he saw that the canopy far overhead was dimly lit as the early morning rays of light filtered through the leaves, quickly driving up the steamy heat of the Jungle of Dorr.

_The End ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hi! Hope you found this story to be fun. It's quite different than the usual F &tGM tale. The reason was the prompt for it was to rewrite a fairy tale or nursery rhyme of one's choice in some other way, such as how it might be told in the writer's fandom. In this version of "Jack and the Beanstalk," Mouser played the traditional Jack, Fafhrd (as the Farrah-inspired 'Fafrah' from "Well Spent in Lankhmar") played his mother, Sheelba of the Eyeless Face was the peddler, and the great gossiper himself, Ningauble of the Seven Eyes, played the giant blackbird. I've included a number of other elements of the Jack story as well as tie-ins to other parts of my F&tGM series. Hope you enjoyed it and got a laugh or two. Your reviews and comments along with any favorites or follows are greatly appreciated, as is your time spent reading the story._


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